


impression/expression

by hydraxx



Series: wordplay [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, First Meetings, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:23:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydraxx/pseuds/hydraxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurens is intrigued by a certain public speaker. He soon learns just how passionate the man can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> impression (n): an idea, feeling, or opinion about something or someone, especially one formed without conscious thought or on the basis of little evidence.
> 
> expression (n): the process of making known one's thoughts or feelings.
> 
> September-December 1777.

The tavern was already loud and growing rowdy by the time John Laurens pushed his way to the bar. Most of the agitation seemed to originate in the far corner, where Laurens could see a slight figure gesticulating wildly atop a chair. The crowd roared from time to time. Curious, he made his way toward the commotion with a pint in hand, slowly winding through bodies until he could see and hear the source of excitement.

The speaker was a short, uniformed man with Caribbean complexion, his dark hair slipping more from its ribbon with every movement. He was yelling to his drunken audience about what sounded like the economic advantages of American independence. They responded with enthusiasm. Beer and wine sloshed from glasses as another cheer erupted, drawing a wide grin onto the man’s determined face.

Laurens was immediately taken. He listened, enraptured, to the rest of the man’s speech—surprisingly eloquent, given the general level of intoxication—and inched ever closer to his makeshift stage. As the topic began to diverge from economics, another soldier tugged the speaker down and effectively ended the spectacle. The crowd dispersed into the rest of the tavern while Laurens continued to push forward.

When he reached the corner table, he found the disgruntled and drunken speaker trying to argue his way back up onto the chair to revive his speech. His companion was unamused.

“Just drink, Hamilton,” the clearly exasperated soldier said. He shoved another glass of wine into the speaker’s hand before slumping back to the bar. Laurens saw his chance to approach.

“Pardon me,” he called, pitching his voice over the din of the tavern. “Sir?”

A moment passed before the soldier realized he was being addressed. His head snapped up when Laurens spoke again. Laurens felt his breath suddenly evaporate under the man’s sharp gaze.

“Can I help you?”

John blinked quickly, trying to recall what he’d intended to say. “I—ah—I sought to inform you, sir, that that was the most elegantly crafted tavern address I have had the honor of witnessing.” As he offered his free hand in introduction, someone blundered into him from behind. His mug landed heavily on the table, but before the rest of his body followed, the small soldier had leapt up from his seat and caught Laurens in a saving embrace.

Shaken and embarrassed, Laurens intended to thank the man and step away, but he found himself instead gazing into dark eyes set in a face only inches from his own.

A sly grin made its way onto those lips, slightly tinged with deep wine red, and John was entranced. This man was _beautiful_. He found himself imagining, just for a moment, how it would feel to lean down and taste that smile...

The soldier cleared his throat without dropping the suggestive grin, and John realized that they were still entangled in one another’s arms. He hurriedly turned away, muttering an apology, and collected his drink. _Had anyone seen?_ Nothing overtly untoward had happened, but John knew all too well that one could never predict the way an ambiguous moment might be interpreted by compromised minds.

Before Laurens could disappear into the crowd, however, the man who had simultaneously salvaged and destroyed his dignity reached out to place a disrupting hand on his shoulder.

“Please,” he said, “Join me. I never turn away a man who seeks to compliment my rhetoric.”

How could John say no to that?

He sank into an empty chair while the soldier reclaimed his seat. They were soon totally engrossed in conversation, growing drunker and friendlier by the minute. Hours passed in this manner until John emerged from the hazy seduction of drink, conversation, and the other man’s alluring lips to see that they were among the last remaining in the tavern.

Laurens stood up rather too quickly and made a grab at the table for support. His conversational partner lurched forward to catch him again, laughing.

John smiled sheepishly. “As much as I relish the grand intercourse of intellect, sir, I fear I must return to my quarters. The night has grown older than I realized.”

The other man rose to his feet more slowly, almost masking his unsteadiness, and replied, “If you wish to continue this... intercourse—” here his smug grin returned “—I could perhaps escort you to your quarters.”

Laurens cursed the drink for his easy blush at the insinuation, but he could not deny his desire, intellectual or otherwise. If this man was as amenable as he seemed...

“Of course I must accept your offer,” John returned, letting a modicum of humor creep into his otherwise solemn voice. “If only for safety’s sake. Few but those under the auspices of the army walk unmolested in these streets.”

Casually, as if merely brushing past, the soldier leaned close to John’s ear and whispered, “Only those of us who wish to remain so.”

John swallowed hard. This night became ever more intriguing.

The two men strolled out of the tavern arm in arm to steady each other’s unbalanced steps. They made their way down the quiet street. If John drew closer to the soldier every few paces, using orchestrated stumbles to press their bodies together, well, he could blame it on intoxication.

John directed their march into the narrow alley that led to his temporary lodging. He slowed as they approached the door. He was unsurprised at his own reluctance to leave this man’s company; his engaging wit and obvious interest were proving difficult to resist.

The soldier stopped suddenly, turning to Laurens as if he were about to speak, but in a moment of drunken impulse John seized both the opportunity and the other man. He crushed the soldier’s slight body to his own in an urgent kiss and was gratified to feel him respond with matching ardor.

John’s earlier fantasy was gloriously consummated. The soldier’s lips were warm and wine-flavored, sending a heady shiver through Laurens. He found himself pressed into the brick wall behind him with a strength that was unexpected given the other man’s small stature. With his arms around him now, however, John could feel taut muscle through the thinning wool coat.

The intoxication of amorous contact multiplied that of beer and wine as their lips slipped open and tongues tasted strange, passionate flesh. John’s hands roamed over the soldier’s slender frame, diving beneath his coat to better appreciate the warmth radiating from his tanned skin. The other man kept his own fingers buried in John’s curls, certainly mussing their neat arrangement, and cocked one knee between John’s thighs to pin him to the wall. Laurens groaned into his partner’s mouth.

There was a soft clatter from above. Both men froze.

Laurens glanced down at the shorter man whose body was pressing him hard into the wall, perhaps in an unconscious effort to remain unseen. The soldier’s dark eyes were wide and frightened. He appeared to be searching the buildings above for some sign of a witness. After a few moments, he released a sigh.

“No one,” he murmured, meeting Laurens’ gaze again. John could still see lingering apprehension in his face. He leaned down again to place a sweet kiss on the swollen lips and was met with desperate urgency.

All too soon, the other man pulled away. He stared up at John as if in internal debate, then stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should go.”

He had disappeared from the alley before Laurens could protest.

It was only later, as he lay restless in bed, that John realized he had never asked the man’s name.

_What a shame._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part 1 of (I think) 4. Comments bring the updates faster!


	2. Chapter 2

Three days later, Laurens strode through the army encampment outside the city in search of General Washington’s headquarters. He had been offered a position as aide-de-camp to His Excellency, an opportunity that few would be foolish enough to refuse. There was a rumor that one man, a certain Hamilton unknown to John, had tried to talk the General into giving him a field command instead. While Laurens doubted the veracity of such talk, if it were true he admired the man’s bravery, both in defying His Excellency and in seeking martial glory.

The simple wooden building that served as military headquarters was swarming with activity. Men of all ranks and origins busied themselves with various essential tasks, most not heeding Laurens’ presence or giving him only a short gentlemanly nod of acknowledgment. He stepped up to the open door, bracing himself for his first meeting with General George Washington.

The scene inside was even more chaotic. Disheveled messengers dashed in and out, communicating briefly with the aides seated at several wooden tables. Papers covered every surface. Each man’s eyes were focused downward on his work, only lifting in response to direct address. Laurens hesitated for a moment, reluctant to interrupt the complex dance of composing warfare, but decided that the possibility of intrusion was easily overridden by the need to seek out the general with all haste. He approached the nearest aide.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said. “I was summoned to see His Excellency General Washington. Could you direct me to him?”

The man barely glanced up before returning his attention to his writing. “Door on the right. Knock first.”

Laurens thanked the aide and proceeded to the indicated door, gathering courage with each step. There was no call for such nerves; he had been offered the position in his own right. Still—it was _General Washington._

He knocked and was invited in, suddenly finding himself only a desk’s span away from the renowned officer. He stood silently until the man put away his quill and rose.

“Mr. Laurens,” Washington said gravely. “We shall be grateful to gain your service here, sir.”

John inclined his head in acknowledgment of the compliment, still nervous, as Washington walked toward him.

“As you can see,” the general continued, “our current state of affairs is less than ideal. I fear you will have no leisurely introduction to the work of a military aide. You are familiar with the French language, is that not so?”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Laurens responded.

Washington nodded approvingly. “Your first assignment, then, is with Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton. He is translating and transcribing letters from certain French allies. Pay him no heed when he insists that he needs no assistance. Hamilton!” the general called.

A slight commotion erupted just outside the office. John heard the distinct crash of an upended pile of papers and winced. A moment later, a dark head popped into view, the man clearly trying to mask annoyance with the disruption.

“Your Excellency. You wanted to see me?”

_Wait_ —John knew that face. _Oh, no._

The infamous Hamilton stepped into the room as Laurens struggled to maintain composure before General Washington. Oh yes, John knew that face indeed. He had spent hours conversing with the man only days before, and then... well, they had kissed each other senseless in an alley while stumbling drunk. The phantom sensation of Hamilton’s slender but muscled frame teased Laurens’ palms. The very last thing he had expected from this position was having to work with the man whose lips, wine-tinged, he had all but fantasized over since their encounter.

_What loving God would send such temptation?_ he wondered desperately.

No God, loving or otherwise, replied before Washington’s voice broke John’s reverie. “Hamilton, have you met Mr. Laurens? I am sure you have corresponded with his father, Henry Laurens, who presently serves in the Congress. He is joining our family as an aide. I have assigned him to supplement your translation work, as he also knows the French tongue.” Hamilton’s eyes remained locked on his commander for the duration of this pronouncement, but John caught a curious twitch at the corner of the man’s mouth.

“I’m sure I have no need of an _assistant_ , sir, but of course I will endeavor to introduce Mr. Laurens to the family life,” Hamilton said, and turned to make his introduction. John, whose gaze was still directed at his new colleague, witnessed the exact moment that the other man recognized him.

Hamilton froze.

His jaw hung slack in the midst of forming a word. His dark eyes widened.

In that moment, John knew that this partnership would end either disastrously or very, _very_ well.

* * *

 

After being dismissed, the two men found themselves awkwardly sharing a worktable and trying to concentrate. Laurens was only barely focused on the translation before him when he noticed Hamilton setting down his quill and leaning forward. He glanced around at the diligent aides surrounding them before putting his own work aside and matching Hamilton’s posture.

They spoke simultaneously in urgent whispers.

“ _You’re_ John Laurens?!”

“You’re _Alexander Hamilton_?!”

They both spluttered defenses until John suddenly realized how absolutely ludicrous the situation had become. His argument gave way midsentence to disbelieving chuckles. Hamilton’s indignant expression only multiplied Laurens’ sense of absurdity. He shook his head and drew a slow breath before speaking again.

“Mr. Hamilton, regardless of certain encounters, we must be able to work together to promote the efficient management of this war. Nonsensical bickering ought to be entirely set aside in favor of His Excellency’s orders.”

At this, the look of affront on Hamilton’s beautiful tanned face changed into something almost admiring. He nodded curtly.

“Very well, Mr. Laurens,” he said. He gathered his papers again and re-inked his quill. “Do not, however, labor under the impression that we will not further discuss, as you say, _certain encounters_. I recall that you were quite intent on continuing that... intercourse.”

This time, Laurens could not blame overindulgence in liquor for the blush that colored his freckled cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These fucking dorks. Praise the lord for Hamilton's canonical wild impropriety. Intercourse, indeed.
> 
> Also... I have no idea how long this will end up being. My outline is still only for 4 chapters, but I REALLY want to cram some more "encounters" into this thing. We'll see.
> 
> Comments bring updates!


	3. Chapter 3

John’s first day in the military family passed quickly as he and Hamilton immersed themselves in translation work. The scratching of their quills was often interrupted by the arrival of messengers, but they took advantage of these brief pauses to flex their stiff hands and refill bottles of ink.

During one lull, Laurens found himself entranced by the movement of Hamilton’s fingers as he massaged away a cramp. The digits were so slim and yet exhibited such graceful strength. John imagined that skill could be expertly applied to something rather more pleasurable than their current occupation. He swallowed roughly as his mind presented the image of himself bent over their worktable, breeches loose, with Hamilton’s dexterous fingers wrapped around him... opening him... _taking_ him. His lips, whose soft caress John remembered with startling clarity, would trace erotic patterns against John’s exposed neck. Perhaps he might graze his teeth across John’s earlobe, and John would shiver and moan at the contact, then reach back to feel his lover’s skin beneath his own ink-stained hands...

This fantasy was cut short by the return of its featured player to the chair opposite John, who had failed even to note his initial absence. Although Laurens was beginning to feel his energies flag, Hamilton seemed just as spirited as he had that morning.

“Dear Mr. Laurens,” the man said jovially, “pray tell me that you are not so soon exhausted by the demands of our war!”

Laurens barely contained an ungentlemanly glare. “No soldier of quality would admit to such weakness,” he replied dryly. “I had only begun to wonder whether the Continental Army feeds its dependents or merely provides a place to sit for the day.”

A passing aide snorted at that speculation. He clapped Laurens on the back and said, “Follow me, good sir. Hamilton may function on ink and spite alone, but the rest of us are prompt to supper.”

 

* * *

 

Around the cooking fires, Laurens was introduced to those of his fellow aides that were presently in camp. They shared stories of their childhoods throughout the colonies and related wild tales of more recent exploits. John felt that a long-held dream was at last being realized as he was surrounded by men of exceptional valor. Hamilton, however, never appeared.

“Oh, Little Hammy forgets that he has human weaknesses,” one man cackled. Tilghman was his name, John recalled. “He’ll stumble out in a few hours and scrape the pots for something.”

Another aide guffawed. “Then he’ll stumble into some pretty girl’s bed, have his fun, and stumble back to us in the morning! Human weakness, indeed.”

Laurens desperately hoped that the heat rising to his face would be masked by the flickering firelight. He should have known someone as alluring as Hamilton would have his pick of lovers. Was John just another midnight conquest? A particularly illicit fireside story?

The men around him continued to laugh over Hamilton’s habits. John was too immersed in his own agonizing thoughts to join their raucous banter until Tilghman noticed his uncomfortable silence.

“Ah, gentlemen, we must not torment poor Mr. Laurens,” he said. Laurens tensed. _What did they know? Had Hamilton spoken of their encounter?_ Tilghman continued, “I doubt our good man wishes to have such intimate knowledge of his bunkmate’s amorous adventures.” He clapped Laurens’ shoulder. “Have you been shown your quarters yet, Laurens?”

John blinked in sudden relief as he realized that Hamilton had not, in fact, revealed their entanglement. After a moment, the full meaning of Tilghman’s words struck him. “Ah, no,” he admitted. “I was unaware of the lodging arrangements.”

Several men offered to familiarize him with aide quarters, but he politely declined. He recognized a perfect opportunity to reacquaint himself with Hamilton’s finer qualities. In the end, he strolled back to headquarters without additional escort, clutching a plate of food for Hamilton.

 

* * *

 

Laurens returned to their worktable to find Hamilton writing furiously under dim candlelight. He set the plate at his own place and fetched a lamp. Hamilton had not noticed his presence.

Clearing his throat, John said, “Mr. Hamilton. I’ve brought you some supper.”

The man started so violently that he upset his inkwell, obliging them both to scramble to save the papers scattered across the table. Laurens apologized profusely, but privately wondered why Hamilton might have reacted so intensely to the interruption.

They eventually settled back into their chairs, Laurens having painstakingly convinced Hamilton to eat. The man’s exhaustion was beginning to reveal itself as his embarrassment at the ink-spilling incident wore away. John observed deepening shadows bruising the delicate skin under his eyes, creased by lines that no man Hamilton’s age ought to have. His curiosity was piqued, especially after learning about the other aides’ early lives. _What was Hamilton’s story?_

It seemed that those questions would remain unanswered by the light conversation. Despite their particular connection, John’s gentlemanly instincts told him it would be inappropriate to probe for details of the man’s life. Instead, they wound through topics relevant to their work from the day. John, commenting on the subtleties of translation, witnessed an odd change overcome Hamilton’s fine features.

“How did you learn French, Mr. Laurens?” he asked casually.

“I was tutored in the language as a child, but I had the pleasure of polishing my ability while studying in Geneva several years ago. I find that immersion in a language is the only way to truly understand its nuances.”

Hamilton’s mouth twisted, although it seemed to Laurens that it was not quite in disagreement. “If only all eager scholars were afforded such opportunities.”

Hoping to understand the comment, John asked, “How did you come to know the language?”

Again, a strange expression flickered across Hamilton’s face. “My mother’s family and some local people spoke it.” He quickly changed the subject.

As they talked, Laurens tried to piece together the great mystery that was Hamilton. He was likely related to recent immigrants, if his family spoke French, and they were probably not affluent given his animosity toward John’s privileged education. But what of his alarm at John’s appearance? Was that a relic of his upbringing, or the result of his more recent experience in the army? It was clear that the depths of Hamilton would not be sounded easily.

Hamilton reached for paper and ink again as the conversation entered a lull. Without entirely thinking, Laurens stopped him with a brush of fingers against the back of his hand. Sudden stillness descended upon Hamilton’s body. The tension seemed the same as what had halted him that morning upon encountering Laurens in Washington’s office, but John detected a nervous energy that had been absent earlier. Hamilton slowly lifted his dark eyes to John’s.

“Mr. Laurens,” he murmured, “Have you an alternative occupation to propose?”

John felt a spark of desire rush up his spine at the same moment that Hamilton surged forward, pushing papers aside in his haste to bring their lips together. Both men moaned at the abrupt contact. All the frustrated longing that was interrupted days before came flooding back, filling John with a desperate heat. He brought one hand to Hamilton’s cheek, stroking the warm skin with his thumb. Hamilton whimpered at the gesture.

Laurens would have climbed over the table to feel all of Hamilton’s body against his own, but the other man preempted that decision by quickly breaking the kiss and dashing over to John, who rose to meet him. They crashed together and stumbled back into John’s chair. Hamilton straddled Laurens, burying his nimble fingers in his hair just as he had during their first encounter. John found that he rather liked the sensation. Finding his own hands unoccupied, he cupped Hamilton’s ass to draw him closer.

Hamilton groaned against John’s lips before sweetly parting them with his tongue. Laurens willingly acquiesced to this escalation. He teasingly sucked Hamilton’s bottom lip and dug his fingers into the firm flesh they held, making the man in his lap squirm in pleasure.

It was Hamilton who began grinding their hips together, but John responded enthusiastically. He could feel himself growing harder at the increasingly intense sensation. Retreating from Hamilton’s attentive lips, John laid kisses along the other man’s stubbled jaw and throat, reveling in the erotic sounds that his actions drew out. He glanced up at his partner’s face. Hamilton had thrown his head back carelessly, features curved into an ecstatic expression, while he writhed in John’s embrace. Laurens was struck again by the man’s exceptional beauty.

Seemingly perturbed by the pause, Hamilton rocked his hips against John’s and pouted down at him.

“Laurens,” he whined, “Please.” John smiled at his impatient tone and moved to kiss him again, but Hamilton looked suddenly inspired.

Leaning down, Hamilton nibbled at John’s earlobe, then whispered, “Shall we remove ourselves to our quarters?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My current favorite phrase of this whole fic is somewhere in this chapter. First one to figure it out gets a 100-word fic of their choice that I will publish on my tumblr. (Jack isn’t allowed to guess because I sent it to him as soon as I wrote it, but all my historical fics are written for him anyway.)
> 
> UPDATE: lafbaeyette got it! Good on ya, pal. The prize fic is here: hydraxx.tumblr.com/post/140944153634/100-word-fic
> 
> As always, comments bring updates!


	4. Chapter 4

John’s head was spinning as Hamilton led him to their shared room. _Perhaps that loving God is showing his mercy after all_ , John thought, sending up a silent prayer to the deity that sent him Alexander Hamilton. Just as he realized that he should have paid heed to where they were going for his own edification, Hamilton stopped short. He turned and grinned recklessly at Laurens.

“Shall we?”

Laurens darted into the room after the other man, closing the door carefully behind to avoid drawing attention. Hamilton pinned him against it almost instantly. John reciprocated the intensity of his advances, clutching at the shorter man’s back and arms through his coat and wishing they were already rid of such petty obstacles.

They kissed fervently as they fumbled at one another’s clothes. Both men were soon divested of coats and waistcoats. John struggled to undo Hamilton’s neck cloth but remained exceedingly distracted by the man’s attentions to his clenched jaw. Laurens shivered in anticipation, applying all the focus he was capable of mustering to finally free Hamilton’s throat from its covering. He ducked his head to recapture Hamilton’s— _Alexander’s_ —lips.

Laurens plainly felt his partner’s hips rock against his thigh and let himself groan, a deep sound that he could swear had somehow originated in his groin. His body responded in its own predictable way.

When John pulled away, gasping for breath, he discovered that Hamilton had nimbly removed his neck cloth and was pulling his shirt out of his breeches. He reached down to grip Alexander’s ass again, enjoying the shift of muscle beneath his fingers. The man reacted delightfully by crushing his body against John’s and _grinding_. In the excitement of the moment, Laurens lost track of which moans and whimpers were falling from whose clumsy lips.

They grappled across the narrow room. Laurens was valiantly attempting to propel Hamilton toward the bed, but the man paused often in the journey to heave himself toward John’s lips. Finally he tumbled backward onto the mattress, looking mildly surprised at the sudden change in position, and gazed up at John.

Laurens’ cock twitched in his breeches at the lustful expression on Hamilton’s face. He had to draw a steadying breath to prevent being completely consumed by the man before him. Hamilton’s pupils nearly eclipsed the molten brown shade of his eyes as he licked his swollen lips, strands of hair falling carelessly across the sun-kissed planes of his forehead. By comparison, John feared, his unruly curls and scattered freckles were unforgivably inferior. Who was this exquisite god among soldiers?

Alexander moaned in exasperation at the delay. His hips canted off the bed in eager little movements, inviting John to grasp them and have his way. Laurens climbed onto the bed next to Hamilton, tugging the man’s slim torso against his own body and losing himself in a chaotic kiss. Their hands roamed over ribs and hips. The sensation of mere shirts covering their chests sent a flash of illicit enjoyment through John—he was practically naked in bed with a man he barely knew. It was certainly among the more reckless things he’d done.

Before he knew it, Alexander’s fingers were slipping below his waistband. John groaned in encouragement and thrust against the other man’s body. He could feel Hamilton’s arousal beneath the rough fabric of his uniform breeches. Alexander took his time, gently stroking the hidden skin and pulling broken whimpers from John’s throat. He was hardly less attentive above the belt as he lavished wet kisses on John’s collarbone and returned again and again to the rousing spot on the shell of his ear.

Laurens soon realized just how swiftly he would fall apart under this man’s touch, and he had the impression that Hamilton didn’t particularly mind.

After a few moments, John recovered his faculties enough to return Alexander’s caresses. A gentleman, even one as debased as him, could never allow himself to be the sole recipient of such pleasures. Hamilton writhed unreservedly when John untucked his shirt and pressed his fingers against the soft skin beneath. Teasingly, Laurens slid one hand over Hamilton’s hipbones to— _oh_ , Alexander suddenly gripped John’s arousal and ran his thumb over the leaking tip. Laurens immediately forgot his coy plans. He bucked frantically in Hamilton’s hold, unable to relieve the tension in his groin but desperate to try. When he opened his eyes for a fraction of a second, he caught a mischievous grin emerging on Alexander’s lips—the kind of smile that deserved to be tasted, then stolen.

John lurched forward to capture Hamilton’s mouth with his own. The kiss was forceful and imprecise, fueled by lust. Laurens withdrew to examine Alexander’s expression—still exceedingly self-satisfied—and paused in his exploration to admire the pretty flush that had crept onto the man’s face. It was almost innocent in its spread, but John had seen the effect of these exertions before.

He shot Hamilton an impish look of his own, then took the man’s cock in his grasp.

Alexander’s playfulness vanished. He freed one hand from John’s hair to bite the knuckles, scarcely muffling the cry that tore from his chest. It was an immensely satisfying sound in John’s opinion. He hastened the pace of his strokes, hoping to hear Hamilton come undone before he let himself follow.

Hamilton, for his part, matched John’s attentions with ardor. Laurens recognized the telltale tension spiraling to a head in his belly and bit hard on Alexander’s bottom lip, trying to keep his release at bay. The other man was panting for breath. John suspected that he was nearing the edge as well.

The instant John knew that further restraint was beyond his abilities, he threw all his pent-up passion into bringing his partner to climax. To his gratification, he felt Alexander come with a shudder and a choked gasp mere seconds before his own wave broke. The other man keened into John’s mouth as he rode out his orgasm.

In the aftermath, time passed as if through molasses. John plucked sweet kisses from Hamilton’s lips. Alexander ran his hands greedily over Laurens’ body, feeling out the dips between each rib and vertebra. Their breaths slowly returned to a steady tempo but never synchronized.

Alexander was the first to rise. He cleaned himself off with a rag cloth that he tossed onto John’s chest, then collected his scattered garments.

Laurens hoisted himself to one elbow. “Dear Hamilton, you hardly need to hasten away. This is your room, after all—I am merely a late-arriving bunkmate.”

“I ought to douse the lights in the workroom,” the man explained. “Do not trouble yourself to await my return.”

John frowned. “If you insist, sir.”

“Keep the bed,” Hamilton said quietly, turning away. “I can lay down my bedroll. I rarely make use of these quarters in any case.”

John couldn’t quite understand the disappointment that constricted his throat as Alexander slipped out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun with it last update, I'm making Guess My Favorite Line In This Chapter a regular feature of impression/expression. The rules:
> 
> 1\. Guesses must be made in AO3 comments  
> 2\. The first person to correctly guess is that chapter's winner  
> 3\. You can only win once  
> 4\. Upon winning you may request anything Hamilton-related for your 100-word prize fic EXCLUDING stories about the actors (I don’t do real, currently living people)  
> 5\. All prizes will be posted at hydraxx.tumblr.com/tagged/prize-fic
> 
> Go forth and make me write fic catered to your specific interests!
> 
> UPDATE: MakeBreakfastNotWar is this chapter's winner! Thanks everyone for playing, and good luck next time.


	5. Chapter 5

John’s melancholy returned in the morning when he woke alone. There was no sign that Hamilton had returned in the night; his bedroll was still neatly stowed at the foot of the bed. Laurens dressed neatly, examining his appearance in the small mirror that lay on a table, and stepped out into the corridor.

Given his state of extreme distraction the previous night, it was fortunate that other aides were emerging from the surrounding rooms and making their way downstairs. John caught up to Tilghman as they entered the stairwell.

“Good morning, sir,” Laurens said politely.

Tilghman groaned. “Please, Mr. Laurens, there is no call for such a lively mood. Not all of us retired so early.” John blushed.

“Forgive me. Perhaps as consolation I could fetch you a cup of coffee. Black?”

“Bless you, John Laurens,” Tilghman sighed. “Truly, the Southern gentleman is alive and well.”

 

* * *

 

 

John saw Tilghman settled with his coffee and greeted several other aides before returning to the worktable he shared with Hamilton. The man was not present, but a note in his handwriting lay at John’s place.

 _I hope Sir that you were not so much affected by your evening as to render you useless to His Excellency the Genl, who in his wisdom has dispatchd me on an errand very urgent, and left you unattended to complete the work which we began in earnest yesterday. In studying_ votre traduction _I am pleased with the quality, and give leave for you to continue in that stile. Now I must dash to the Genls. will. I have the Honour to be Your Obedt Servt_

_A Hamilton_

The condescension in Hamilton’s words rankled. Only by virtue of his longer service to General Washington might Hamilton have the right to criticize John’s work, and he did not appreciate the implication that he was a green boy in need of guidance. In passing, another aide—Harrison, perhaps?—spotted the paper Laurens held.

“A directive from our Little Lion?” he laughed. “If his antagonism has not driven you from the cause yet, you are indeed one of our more determined newcomers. What does he say?”

“He grants me permission to continue translation unsupervised,” Laurens answered dryly.

“Oh, a compliment!” Tilghman cried from across the room, his attitude much improved by the coffee. “Mr. Laurens, you have been blessed. Do not underestimate the magnitude of our Hammy’s approval. Harrison, please enlighten our new colleague.”

Harrison shook his head in a way that made Laurens think such banter must be a regular and bothersome feature of the aides’ office. “You see, Mr. Laurens,” he began, “Hamilton holds himself to high expectations—not without reason, of course—but fails to comprehend that others may also establish such exacting standards. I beg you, take no offense at any abrupt assessment of your abilities. I am sure you are a fine translator.”

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the first messenger of the day. Each aide turned to his own tasks, leaving John to ponder the nature of his relationship with Alexander Hamilton while he worked.

Their intellectual compatibility had been made clear in the first hours they knew each other, and there was obviously a carnal spark between them. The irresponsibility of conducting an immoral affair was of little consequence to John. He had never planned to grow old and regretful, preferring instead to pursue the exhilarating actions that stirred his deepest sense of vitality. Still, John thought, he should guard his own heart carefully to avoid sentimental entanglement—especially with a fellow soldier.

 

* * *

 

 

As the day passed, John exchanged passing comments with the other aides but remained for the most part consumed in his translations. Hamilton did not return before supper, but no one thought it unusual; Harrison explained that Washington often sent him to conduct business with other commanders.

Laurens finally completed the last transcription as several other men concluded their own work. Tilghman, apparently well recovered from that morning’s indisposition, invited him into town for a drink and John gladly accepted. Losing himself in a cup ought to serve nicely to pull his mind away from the puzzle of Hamilton.

A large group trudged to the tavern, joking loudly to shake off the day’s cares. John tried unsuccessfully to avoid the topic of Hamilton while conversing with Tilghman.

“Has your opinion of the Little Lion formed favorably, Mr. Laurens?” the man asked as they paid the barkeep for their ale.

“He is certainly a complex character,” John hedged, unsure how to answer truthfully. “He seems quite devoted to the revolutionary cause.”

“Oh, yes,” Tilghman said. “A true patriot, despite his origins.”

“His origins?”

“West Indian,” Tilghman explained between sips. “Can you not hear it in his accent?” Laurens shook his head. “Ah, well, you’ve had little conversation with him, and I warrant in English. He hides that well in any case, but his French is all Caribbean.”

John tucked this information away for later consideration. “Is it true what you all said yesterday, about him slipping out with girls at all hours?”

Tilghman snorted. “He is a tomcat, our Ham, but I confess there was some exaggeration to that story. I hope we did not offend your sensibilities. Truly, he is more likely to spend a night scribbling away than making any improper mischief.”

 _If only he knew_ , John thought, warding off the blush that threatened to reveal his embarrassment. He threw back the last large swallow of his drink instead and spent the rest of the outing determinedly talking about everything except Hamilton.

 

* * *

 

 

When Laurens staggered back to headquarters, he found the source of his frustration seated once again at their worktable, intent on yet another piece of writing. Their fellow aides bid them goodnight and retired. Laurens, just drunk enough to be spectacularly demanding, slumped into his chair and reached across the table to plant one palm on either side of Hamilton’s page. The man raised his eyebrows questioningly but continued with his task. Laurens huffed.

“Hamilton,” he said impatiently, “surely you have accomplished more than enough for the day. And I hear from our esteemed colleagues that you have the atrocious habit of sleeping at your desk like a shop clerk rather than enjoying the refined comforts of bed. I will not stand for such nonsense.” Hamilton made a noncommittal noise and refilled his quill, but John caught the smirk tugging at the corners of his lush lips.

Laurens allowed the man to write in silence for a few moments more. Just as he prepared to speak again, Alexander set down his quill and looked up. John was struck with the full force of his hungry, piercing gaze.

“Mr. Laurens,” Alexander murmured, dangerously quiet, “are you trying to tempt me into bed?”

With the courage instilled by spirits coursing through him, John grinned. He thought he saw Alexander’s eyes darken slightly in response as he said, “That is entirely up to you.”

He rose and sauntered past Hamilton toward the stairs. Laurens could feel the man’s attention boring straight through his coat as he walked. There was a sudden scramble behind him, the sound of papers hastily stacked and ink set aside, then a chair scraping the wooden floor, and Alexander’s hands were on him before he gained the first step.

Laurens would have giggled in surprise and pleasure had he not been so consumed by the feeling of Hamilton’s body against his. The shorter man propelled them up the stairs and to their room, never once releasing his hold on John.

They kissed eagerly as they tumbled together onto the narrow bed. John struggled to remove his coat, prompting a pretty laugh from Alexander when one arm became trapped in its sleeve. He was soon pinned to the mattress with the other man’s slim thighs straddling his hips, still trying to draw those deliciously needy noises from Alexander’s mouth with his tongue. Pulling away, John gasped for breath and let his head fall back. His own curls tickled his cheeks. Above him, Hamilton looked smitten. He drank in John’s face with wide eyes.

“My dear Laurens, has anyone told you how beautiful you are in this state?” he whispered. Laurens had no opportunity to answer because Alexander punctuated his question by bringing his nimble lips to John’s throat, nipping bruises along the expanse from jaw to collarbone. All John could do was moan and writhe under his partner’s weight.

Their teasing game continued with playful bites and heavy kisses until both men sprawled on the mattress, exhausted, chests heaving. John ran one hand down Alexander’s side, memorizing the contours of his structure, before dragging him close. Mingled breaths found a calm lull. John was drifting off when he felt Alexander shift as if to depart.

“No,” he mumbled. “Please stay, Alexander.”

“As you wish, dear boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost got super angsty with this, but y'all've been spared for now. (For the most part. I'm not perfect.)
> 
> Favorite Line Guessing Game: GO! (See chapter 4 endnotes for the rules and hydraxx.tumblr.com/tagged/prize-fic for previous winners.)
> 
> Also, I've been pretty good about getting new chapters up quickly, but the next one may not arrive until next week - please be patient with me, I have several full days of work plus a friend coming to town.


	6. Chapter 6

Days and weeks marched on, as did the war effort. Laurens and Hamilton were kept constantly employed with the General’s correspondence. They spent so much time in each other’s company that the aides began to tease them for their mutual devotion. Hamilton, unable to resist the opportunity for grand allusions, proclaimed that they would usher in their democracy hand in hand as newborn gods. Laurens hid his fierce blush behind a deep draught but caught Hamilton smiling tenderly at him across the table.

The lovers’ passion was hardly quenched by their nocturnal exploits. They took to stealing kisses in hidden corners of the camp, running their hands roughly over weary bodies for a meager moment. Hamilton developed the habit of initiating simple touches under the concealment of their worktable until the two grew used to working with their boots resting against one another. John basked in the sense of domestic comfort without entirely understanding why.

Their perfect partnership nearly always extended to their work. Before the month was out they were composing letters together, exchanging such quick comments that their colleagues were amazed the conversation accomplished anything. Tilghman chided Alexander for wasting time prior to John’s arrival: “If you had made the rest of us aware of this remarkable capacity for purely mental conversation, Hammy, we could have run the redcoats off months ago!”

Laurens knew well, however, that their particular sort of communication was not at all limited to nonverbal means. In a moment of incredible temerity, Hamilton had turned to him during a meeting with Washington and said, completely straight-faced, “ _Je veux te sentir sous mes lèvres_.”

John gaped at his lover, then stammered, “ _Monsieur, est-il approprié de parler comme ça en présence de notre supérieur_?”

“ _D’accord, mon chou_ ,” Hamilton replied. He looked back at the flustered general, who Laurens suddenly remembered knew not a word of French. “Apologies, Your Excellency. We had discussed this topic so much in French recently that I slipped into the language without thinking.”

Washington still looked uncomfortable, but nodded. “I understand that it can be difficult to separate the languages one has learned since childhood,” he said. “In future, however, I would prefer that you conduct business with me in English, as it is the primary language of these colonies.” The two men inclined their heads in acknowledgment.

Later, in the privacy of their room, Alexander giggled madly over his joke despite John’s admonishments.

 

* * *

 

One night after a particularly grueling day during which both Laurens and Hamilton had been called away to conduct business with different commanders, John found that sleep restlessly eluded him. Although Alexander had dutifully returned to his bedroll after acquiescing to John’s first drowsy request, Laurens realized that he had grown accustomed to his mere presence in the room. He rolled onto his back to stare blankly into the darkness.

When had be become so dependent upon Hamilton? It was true that they were all but inseparable, but he had lived and worked in close quarters with men before without forming such attachments. Even past lovers failed to have this effect. Now, however, his mind was always partially occupied with memories of Alexander’s fervent lips and salty skin, their trysts reimagined and reinvented one thousand times over during the course of the day. A curse and a blessing—truly, Hamilton’s intimacy was both.

Laurens was still restive when the door scraped open. Hamilton carried no light, but John was intently aware of his movements as he laid down his satchel and stripped off his outer garments. Then, to John’s surprise, he did not lay out his bedroll but stumbled to the mattress and sagged onto it. Neither man spoke. John could sense the heaviness in Alexander’s limbs and realized his utter exhaustion. He gently drew one arm across the other man’s waist. Alexander exhaled.

John laid a fragile kiss on his lover’s temple.

“Sleep, Alexander,” he whispered.

As the shorter man wriggled closer and fell into deep slumber, Laurens was struck with a damning realization.

_Oh, no. Anything but that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Je veux te sentir sous mes lèvres: I want to feel you under my lips.  
> Monsieur, est-il approprié de parler comme ça en présence de notre supérieur?: Sir, is it appropriate to speak like this before our superior?  
> D'accord, mon chou: Alright, darling. ["chou" is literally "cabbage" but hey, endearments are weird]
> 
> Spread the word, Washington is a damn dirty English Only man. (Ok, I have no idea what his opinions on linguistic nationalism were if they existed, but I have a lot of feelings about language so I'm going to yell about it anyway. This is what you get for following a fic written by a linguist. So, message me about language ideology if you want a completely fic-unrelated rant?)
> 
> Chapter 5's Favorite Line HAS NOT been won yet, but it is STILL OPEN TO GUESS, as is this chapter! Go go go!
> 
> ONE MORE THING: Since we're now past what I initially planned to write, as a bonus and to make up for the length of this chapter I'm posting my original outline at hydraxx.tumblr.com/tagged/fanfiction. Check it outttt


	7. Chapter 7

For days, John was utterly trapped between contentment and misery. He found himself entirely unprepared to cope with the sudden reality of being in love with Alexander Hamilton. He reveled in every casual touch Hamilton bestowed while lamenting that the other man was apparently untormented by the same passions. They continued to share a bed, a worktable, and the majority of their time both on duty and off: Laurens, brave though he might be, dared not confront the desolation that would surely follow an end to the relationship. He preferred not to meditate on his own selfishness.

Their days were full and exhausting with preparation for the next action, but the lovers stole time where they could for brief and lustful embraces. As they rode back to camp one crisp November evening, Hamilton signaled Laurens to halt and dismount. John complied with no small measure of confusion and concern. Were there enemy patrols in range? He scanned the surrounding woods apprehensively, trying to determine what had prompted their pause.

Hamilton was also studying the trees, but his expression betrayed no fear. “John,” he said calmly, and Laurens felt his heart glow with affection at the sound of his name on Alexander’s lips. The man continued, “Do you recall the first night we met?”

“Of course, dear boy,” he replied. “You were quite conversational, and quite forward.”

Alexander smiled, pacing toward him. “I admit you took me by surprise in the end.”

“What is this about, Alexander?”

John recognized the feral edge to his Hamilton’s grin at precisely the same moment the man seized him in a hard kiss. He responded as if on instinct after so many hurried trysts. Alexander’s arms were flung around his neck, hands already tangled in his curls. He encircled his lover’s waist and pulled him closer. Every line of their bodies was pressed flush together, rendering John practically euphoric. He deepened the kiss, playfully sliding his tongue past Alexander’s lips to taste him.

He hadn’t realized that Alexander was pushing him backwards until he collided abruptly with the wide trunk of a tree. The man laughed quietly at John’s startled grunt but carried on his amorous explorations. John was on the verge of giving himself over entirely to his lover; he would lie breathless in the leaves, Alexander above him with hair untied and tumbling around his flushed face and sparkling eyes. With this image in mind John skated his hands up Alexander’s back, feeling the warmth of his wool coat against the chilly autumn breeze, and cupped the man’s cheek. Alexander moaned softly as John scraped his thumb across the stubble of a beard. Their hips ground together, both men seeking relief from their mutual predicament yet finding none. John tilted his head to reach the supple skin beneath Alexander’s jaw and swept his lips and tongue across the beating pulse revealed there. Alexander shivered in his arms.

John gladly would have persisted in this vein had his lover not retreated, cursing as he looked toward the sky.

“It draws late,” he said, tearing himself away from John and stalking back to his horse. “Washington wants us for that meeting, remember?”

John groaned regretfully. “I suppose there will be no enticing you to disobey orders and ravish me instead?”

Now mounted, Alexander smiled down wryly. “Unfortunately, dear Laurens, His Excellency still outranks you. Come."

 

* * *

 

They arrived at headquarters just in time. The other aides were gathered in the workroom to await their commander. Laurens and Hamilton had barely set down their satchels when Washington strode into the room, followed closely by a much younger man uniformed as a major general. Despite his formal posture, Laurens could not suppress his delight at once again seeing the Marquis de Lafayette.

The Marquis spotted Laurens the moment he entered. “Monsieur Laurens!” he cried. “Comment allez-vous?” _[How are you?]_

“Tres bien, monsieur,” John replied. “Vous récupérez bien?” _[Very well, sir. Are you recovering well?]_

“Ah, oui. La blessure ne fut pas grave, merci à Dieu. Monsieur Hamilton, ça fait trop longtemps, no?” _[Oh, yes. The wound was not serious, thank God. Mr. Hamilton, it has been too long, no?]_

Laurens barely hid his surprise as Lafayette turned to greet Hamilton. He had not known that the two were already acquainted—but it made sense, he supposed, since Hamilton had already been in the General’s service.

The three men chatted cordially, comparing stories of injuries and assignments, until Washington drew the Marquis away to complete their business.

“I was unaware that you are familiar with the Marquis,” Laurens said.

“Ah, yes. I met him some months ago. Quite an amiable fellow, don’t you think?”

Laurens could only agree.

 

* * *

 

Within the week, the trio of Hamilton, Laurens, and Lafayette was well known around camp. They were a distinct group, all dark-haired and eager, consulting each other constantly in rapid French. John was glad to have another close friend. He got along well with the other aides, but their company never matched the easy familiarity that colored his interactions with Hamilton and Lafayette.

The Marquis also proved to be a much-needed confidant. In his tent after supper, Laurens bemoaned his adoration of Hamilton, explaining to Lafayette how his heart ached for some measure of reciprocity.

“Je crois qu’il peut vous aimer aussi,” Lafayette told him soothingly. “Peut-être il hésite à ce révéler.” _[I believe he may love you as well. Perhaps he is hesitant to reveal it.]_

“Peut-être,” John acquiesced, sighing. He groaned and threw one arm dramatically across his face. “Quelle misère!” _[Perhaps. What misery!]_

Lafayette was sympathetic, but only to a point. He eventually sent John back to his room at headquarters despite his pouting protests, laughing, “Votre amour vous attend!” _[Your love is waiting for you!]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, fave line guessing game is open! Chapters 5 and 6 are still unclaimed, too, y'all oughta get on that.
> 
> UPDATE: Laramidian_Phantoms is this chapter's winner! Y'all can keep guessing on 5 and 6, though. Head to hydraxx.tumblr.com/tagged/prize-fic to read the ficlet.


	8. Chapter 8

John’s heartache only increased as time passed. Daily he caught himself staring at Hamilton across the worktable and daydreaming of peaceful days together after the war. If he were honest, John might acknowledge that the chance of building a life with Alexander was his only incentive to survive. Otherwise… well, the allure of glorious death was powerful.

As another battle approached, Laurens and Hamilton were privy to endless meetings on strategy and logistics. Hamilton descended into a state of near-constant worry about the army’s supplies and the increasing number of desertions. He produced a steady stream of letters to Congress, begging for aid. Laurens supported him in whatever way he could.

“Ham,” he said, barely dragging the man’s attention away from the page before him. “You must eat. You are no good to the cause half-starved.”

John knew Hamilton’s brief hum of acknowledgment was all the answer he would get. He left a plate at his elbow and returned to his own work.

Lafayette spent most of his time with Washington, but Laurens dragged him out for a drink on occasion.

“Mon ami,” the Frenchman opined, “I do not know that we can conquer. This army has little discipline. I will not say so to His Excellency because I am here to learn, not to teach, and because he knows this, but I hope that soon we may have some luck.”

John nodded into his cup. “We do what we can, but I agree that there is little hope of prevailing when the armies of Europe are so vastly superior to our own. Hamilton thinks that the militias will prove an even greater problem, with the desertion rate and no standard training regimen.”

“I must agree with our lion,” Lafayette said. “But we cannot expect to remedy this before the next action. I fear that at this time we can only pray.”

“Pray, and fight.”

 

* * *

 

John was certainly fighting enough, but in the absence of military action the conflict was entirely within himself. He both yearned for and dreaded battle. He knew the field would clear his mind of Alexander, Alexander, Alexander—but it could also rob him so easily of that same joy. Alexander’s death would destroy his very soul, leaving him to be overcome by either the rubble or the weight of his own sins undiluted by extant love. In that eventuality, John was prepared to find a hasty end.

Unfortunately, those decisions were entirely out of his hands for the moment, as he well knew from observing Washington’s strategy meetings. Every movement was closely planned in accordance with their knowledge of the enemy. On the day before their departure, John received his assignment.

“Laurens,” the general said, directly addressing the aides for the first time since they had entered the room nearly two hours ago. “You will be under the command of General Sullivan. Report to him after the supper hour tonight. Hamilton, you remain with me.”

John was stricken with panic. In his uneasy reflections he had never accounted for the possibility of being separated from Alexander during the fight. What if Hamilton was wounded or killed? It might be hours, even days, before anyone thought to inform someone they thought a mere friend. How could John endure the apprehension that his lover—his love—might not have suffered to live?

These thoughts haunted his steps as he returned to their room to gather his gear. Hamilton entered moments later, unusually quiet, and closed the door to the corridor.

“John,” he murmured. “Are you alright?”

Laurens continued packing items into his bag, refusing to look up at his lover for fear that his emotions would betray him.

“I am quite well, Ham.”

“You know that I would do anything in my power to fight alongside you were it possible. The general’s orders cannot be influenced in matters such as this. Believe me, I have tried.”

“Alexander, please.” John finally turned and saw that Hamilton’s earnest face was twisted in concern. His heart leapt to his throat. “Please,” he repeated in a broken whisper.

Alexander crossed the room in two strides, almost running, and buried his face in John’s shoulder. They circled their arms around one another, holding fast in a vain effort to suspend time. John shakily inhaled. Alexander smelled of sweat and ink; a vague mustiness rose from his well-worn wool coat. John could not in good conscience call the scent pleasant, but in the moment he was comforted by it. It meant the man in his embrace was tangible, infecting all the surrounding space with his presence. He was real, and he was _there_.

In his desperation for reassurance, Laurens gripped Hamilton’s jaw and brought their lips recklessly together. Helpless noises escaped Alexander’s throat as they kissed. They clutched at each other’s coats, neither one willing to break contact, feverishly sucking in breaths until Laurens felt moisture pricking the corners of his eyes. He pulled away and tried to swallow the knot that seemed to obstruct his voice.

“I wish always to be by your side,” John choked out. “In battle, yes, but—always.”

The shorter man stared at him in confusion, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. “What?”

John immediately regretted his words. He awkwardly retreated from his lover’s hold and avoided meeting his gaze, reaching for his pack. He turned back to the door.

“I must go. General Sullivan awaits me. God grant you good fortune on the field.”

“John—”

“The eyes of history are on us, Alexander.”

John glanced only once at Hamilton’s bewildered face. Then he stalked out of the room, jaw clenched, fighting back tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all were in the mood for some pain.
> 
> Guessing game is open for chapters 5, 6, and 8 (this one). Go go go!


	9. Chapter 9

The thrill of combat rushed through John’s limbs. His mind was detached yet hyper-focused, following the movement of bodies around him while carefully managing the weight of the gun in his hands. He jabbed his bayonet at a stained red coat. The man’s scream only vaguely registered in his awareness as he moved to protect a wounded militiaman.

Laurens stumbled on the mangled field but caught himself on one knee. His breeches came away covered in dark mud, likely mingled with the blood of the men surrounding him. He gritted his teeth with a wince of pain—someone must have struck his jaw—and reentered the fray.

Shreds of sunlight pierced the smoke hovering over the battle, glinting off of metal and sweat-streaked skin. John squinted to ward off the glare. Men clashed and fell on all sides, their yells of defiance and pain drowned out every few seconds by gunfire. Laurens was grateful that battle gave him a singular goal, because the chaotic energy of the field would override any competing thought.

The fight raged on. John became dimly aware of the ragged feeling of his breath and realized that his throat and mouth were parched. The redcoats in his immediate vicinity were fallen or fled, so he stole a moment to duck behind a large stump and open his canteen.

He jumped when another body was flung against the wood but the man gasped, “Laurens!”

“Tilghman!” he cried. His fellow aide appeared unharmed despite the blood smeared across his face and uniform.

“How goes it?” Tilghman asked after taking a long draught of water. “Not injured?”

“All fares well in this quarter. I’ve failed to match my accomplishments of previous actions in terms of damage received despite best efforts,” John said with a grin.

Tilghman snorted and wiped his mouth clumsily. “Ham will be glad to hear it. He and the Marquis have been quite forlorn at your absence.”

_Alexander_. John’s heart felt suddenly heavy—in the turmoil, he had spared not one thought for his lover. “Is—are they well?”

“If not, the bastard who did it has paid for the trouble. They were in high spirits last I saw them.”

“Good,” John said, hastily corking his canteen and slinging it out of the way to grab his musket when he spotted a British officer in range. Tilghman was already on his feet by the time Laurens fired on the man. They charged again into the action as the redcoat fell.

 

* * *

 

Laurens felt as if years might have passed before the battle abated, although the sun still rode high on its journey toward the horizon. His entire body was dripping with sweat and blood; smears of mud and unidentifiable flora were caked onto his clothing. He wandered across the field in search of his commanders as stillness fell.

A continental command tent had been erected near a small grove of trees. There Laurens found Washington, Sullivan, Lafayette, and several aides nursing minor wounds and organizing the aftermath. Everyone was disheveled and clearly drained. He joined their efforts, still trying to brush grime from his skin and uniform.

John was two sentences into transcribing a scout’s report when he remembered that Lafayette had been fighting alongside Hamilton, and while the former was debating strategy with Washington, the latter had yet to appear. He felt bile rise in his throat, thick with fear. Surely Lafayette would have told him had Hamilton fallen. But perhaps they were all just troubled enough to let such things slip their minds.

A cold sweat broke across John’s brow as he set down his trembling quill. He stood, oddly steady given the roaring panic in his head, and crossed to the table where Lafayette and Washington sat.

“Pardon me, sirs,” he said. How was his voice not quavering? How was he speaking at all? “I believe we are missing a crucial member of our staff. Has Colonel Hamilton returned?”

Washington shook his head, gaze dropping to the map before him.

“Désolé, mon ami,” Lafayette whispered. He looked stricken. Laurens’ heart plummeted at his expression. “We were separated on the field. I do not know what has befallen him.”

John blinked. The bustle of the tent fell away until he heard only a faint buzzing. Some apparition must have taken hold of his body to cause him to walk away, out onto the field, and stare down at the bodies strewn there.

_Where was Alexander?_

Stumbling steps became a walk, a jog, a sprint to desperately examine every fallen continental soldier in sight. Even faces Laurens recognized were meaningless behind his glassy eyes because none of them were Hamilton. All their uniforms became a blur, but none bore the green sash distinguishing an aide-de-camp. John fingered his own sash absentmindedly, imagining the times that he had removed Hamilton’s, praying to the God that had brought him Alexander for his safe return.

The groans of dying soldiers seemed to surround Laurens on all sides. He kept one ear cocked for Alexander’s voice, hoping that he would recognize it even in agony.

Movement caught his eye, more than a fatally injured man could muster. He whirled toward the source: a blue-coated figure near the tree line dragging himself to kneel, then stand. Dark hair—

“ _Alexander!_ ” Some sound escaped John’s mouth, and while he intended to shout his lover’s name, he could not be certain of the utterance. He rushed toward the man who had turned at his yell, and yes, there was the sash, there was his Hamilton’s face, bloodied but living, filling his vision.

Laurens crashed into Hamilton, unwilling to moderate his pace as he approached. The collision propelled them under cover of the trees. “Oh, my God, my God, my Alexander,” John babbled, unable to temper the exhilaration that had flooded him at the sight of his lover.

Hamilton laughed breathlessly. “John, John, John,” he whispered, trailing kisses over Laurens’ cheeks.

John relinquished his grip on the front of Alexander’s coat and settled his hands on the man’s low back, giving him the leverage he needed to pull his lover close. He pressed their foreheads together and tried to breathe evenly. _Alexander was here. Alexander was alive._

With elation rushing through him, John could not have stopped his next words even had he wanted to: “Alexander, I love you.”

A single beat passed with not a breath exchanged between them. Then, a delighted smile illuminated Alexander’s exhausted face and John felt his heart leap.

“John, of course, I love you, I love you with every bone and muscle in my body,” he gasped, tears beginning to trickle down his face.

Laurens leaned in to kiss away the salty drops. One of Hamilton’s hands crept over John’s body to cup his ass. Laurens groaned and thrust his hips against Alexander’s, feeling his arousal growing. The shorter man surged forward to capture John’s lips and then they were staggering, thrown off balance, tumbling to the leafy ground.

When John landed he thought that he had fallen back through time. Alexander atop him, eyes wide and lips parted, looked exactly as Laurens had imagined in the woods the day Lafayette arrived. He had only a moment to process this image, however, as Hamilton took control and kissed him deeply.

Neither man hesitated to let tongues delve past lips. John’s hands roamed over his lover’s body, as much to relish the reunion as to ascertain whether the man had been injured, but with the intensity of Alexander’s kisses he was quickly distracted from his survey.

John adored the sensation of being pinned down by Hamilton. He was all but helpless beneath him, trying to push their hips together or tug the other man closer but not effecting much change in position. The weight of his lover grounded him in body and spirit.

Alexander bit John’s lower lip and elicited a wanton moan. John ferociously returned the gesture and they were soon fumbling at each other’s breeches while exchanging heated love bites.

Before either man could get the other undressed, they were unpleasantly jolted back to reality by the distant sound of their names. Laurens suddenly recalled that he had left the command tent without explanation and in a sensitive state. Someone must be looking for them.

Hamilton whined his disappointment but withdrew. “We shall return to these endeavors later,” he promised. “I am determined now to convince you by actions rather than words alone that I love you.”

“I love you,” John repeated. His eyes fluttered closed momentarily as he steeled himself for the exquisite new suffering of subduing their mutual passions. When he opened them, Alexander was on his feet and offering a hand.

“Although I hope _le petit mort_ is not long in coming,” the man said with a wink, “we must not let them believe us dead.”

Laurens took his hand and stood, shaking his head at the quip. They emerged from the woods with arms slung around one another’s shoulders.

John raised his eyes to the blue sky. _Thank you_ , he thought in silent prayer. _Thank you for preserving my Alexander._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go. I thought I was going to have another chapter but I liked the way this one wrapped up. I have some other things planned in this universe, though, rest assured.
> 
> Thank y'all so much for the overwhelmingly positive response to this fic! It has been a pleasure and I look forward to writing more.
> 
> Guessing game is open for chapters 5, 6, 8, and 9. I'll continue checking comments for guesses if anyone wants to keep trying.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank Jack for this. He makes me write these things.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @hydraxx. Bring questions, comments, requests, feels, headcanons, etc.


End file.
